He lifts his chin. "We've become fast friends. While you and Noah were . . . busy."

I walk backward toward the door, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Blushing too. "I'm going out for a walk."

"You? A walk? Since when do you need food, sunshine, fresh air?" Jamie looks around dramatically. "Oh. Noah isn't here. That explains it."

"Shut up."

"Come. Let us find him together," Jamie says, and offers his arm, which I take. We wander a bit before heading to the park. I do not fail to notice the pendant around Jamie's neck; he's developed a habit in the past week of hooking his finger around it while he talks. Mine rests in my pocket, nestled next to Noah's. I haven't made my decision yet.

"So what college am I going to lie to your parents about for you?" Jamie asks, bumping my shoulder.

"Not sure." We walk past a street cart selling roasting nuts; the smell mingles with the scents of dust and metal from the construction being done on the street. "But I like New York."

"Same. I was thinking about Columbia, or NYU maybe. Not sure I'll get in, but I'm black, queer, and Jewish so I got three brochures."

I smirk and catch a glimpse of our reflections in the dark glass of an office window. Not that long ago, I probably would've died laughing at the things Jamie said. But what we've been through has thrown us forward a decade, at least. People who didn't know us would think we looked like teenagers still, and if they saw pictures of us Before and After they might not even be able to tell the difference. But I can tell. Our smiles for cameras are jaded now, our grins at jokes a bit bitter. That's what separated us from the multitudes of Them. We lived harder. Knew better. But we laughed anyway. Laughed because there was nothing else to do but give up.

And I would never give up. I've done terrible things I regret and terrible things I don't. But I don't need to be fixed. I don't need to be saved. I just have to keep going.

We cross the street into the park, and blossoms fall like snow as we walk beneath the trees. The sky is blue and cloudless-a perfect spring day. It's like a dream, light and beautiful and happy, the kind I never have.

"Fancy meeting you here," says Noah. He's right behind us, in slim, dark jeans and a faded black T-shirt. His hair is carelessly tousled and noticeably clean. He's carrying a shopping bag, which dangles lightly from his fingers.

I look him over with narrowed eyes. "How long have you been following us?"

"Forever."

I touch a finger to my lips. "Funny, you don't look like you've been running."

Jamie claps his hands once. "That would be my cue!" He kisses me on the cheek. "I'm going to bid farewell to my illustrious cousin, your illustrious attorney."

"Say hi to her for me."

"Shall do."

"Me as well," Noah chimes in, but Jamie's already walking away. He raises his hand to give him the finger from over his shoulder. Noah's mouth spreads into a grin.

"So where were you?"

He moves the shopping bag farther behind him. "Oh, hookers, blow, the usual."

"Why do I even love you?"

"Because I come bearing gifts," Noah says, and withdraws the thing from the bag with a flourish. A sketchbook.

My cold heart melts a little. "Noah."

"The old one was a bit morbid," he says, the corner of his mouth turning up with a smile. "Thought you could use a fresh start."

I rise on my toes to kiss him.

"Wait," he murmurs against my lips. "You haven't seen the best part."

"There's another part?" I ask as he takes my hand and tugs me toward a bench. He slips the sketchbook under his arm and sits me down by my shoulders.

"Close your eyes," he says, and I do. I hear him turning the pages of the sketchbook. "All right. Open."

I'm looking at a drawing, if you could call it that. But of what, I have no idea.

"I thought I'd christen it for you, so I drew your portrait."

"Oh!" Oh, hell. "It's . . . really special, Noah. Thank you."

He bites his lip. "Mmm."

"But wait." I turn it horizontally. "Why do I have a tail?"

He tilts his head to look at it. "That's not a tail, that's your arm."

"Why is it coming out of my ass?"

He closes the sketchbook. "Behave."

"Or what, you'll spank me?"

He leans toward me. His mouth makes contact with my earlobe, his rough jaw with my cheek, and he says, "That would be a reward, darling. Not a punishment."

My heart is already racing. Gets me every time. "Speaking of," I say softly. "I missed you this morning."

"I'll have to find a way to make it up to you. Have you packed?"

"We have time still," I say, because I'm not ready to go.

Noah knows what I'm thinking. He laces his fingers between mine. "We'll be back."

We would be. I could feel it. I stretch out next to Noah, my head in his lap, my feet on the rail. People weave around us, but it feels like we're alone in a sea of beating hearts and breathing lungs. I watch smoke rise from a manhole across the street, and can almost see it form words in the air: welcome home. We could be anonymous here. Just a normal couple, young and in love and holding hands in New York.

I lean down and withdraw a book from my own bag as Noah plays with my hair. It's the SAT book. Wrong one. I drop it back in and finally find the one I'm looking for-a novel, freshly bought, about superpowered teens. Call it research.

"What book?"

I show Noah the cover, then flip to the last page.

"Wait-are you-Mara Dyer, are you reading the ending first?"

"I am."

"You are fascinating."

"I'm weird," I say, without looking up. "There's a difference."

"Really though, how did I not know this about you? This changes everything."

I glare at him and snap the book shut.

"Oh, don't stop on my account."

"I am. I am stopping on your account."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not. Besides, we should probably be reading . . ." My neck crunches as Noah leans over to rummage in my bag. He pulls out the SAT book. "This. A Daniel purchase?"

"How'd you ever guess?"

"Here, I'll quiz you."

"Noah-"

"No, no, I insist." He flips through it. "All right, first word: quintessence."

"I do not want to play this game."

He ignores me. "Nom de plume."

"That's not obscure."

"And it's not really a word, is it? More like a phrase. Who wrote this book anyway?"

"Who cares?" I pluck the book from his hands, drop it into my bag, and slip out a notebook instead. And earphones.

"What are you doing?"

I take a deep breath. "I am running away to join the circus. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"The circus would never have you. You're not flexible enough. We're going to have to work on that."

I hit him. Hard.

"Are you going to draw?"

"Nope."

"Shame. I was going to ask you to do me like one of your French girls."

"You're quoting it wrong."

"Am I?" He pretends to look thoughtful. "Freudian slip, I suppose. So what are you doing?"

"I decided I need a new hobby."

"Writing?"

"Trying to," I say, annoyed.

"Your memoir?"

Earlier this week, I'd signed a retainer agreement with Rochelle. She is a criminal defense attorney, I'm a criminal-it's a perfect match. We thought Jamie would be able to damage-control most of what had happened to us, in terms of exposure, but I actually want to go public. Rochelle warned me against it, as any good lawyer would, citing the lack of evidence, the possibility of countersuits-all solid arguments. But I couldn't pretend that this last year hadn't happened. People needed to know about it. I needed to share it.

It was Daniel's idea to publish our story as fiction that wasn't really fiction. I swore to Rochelle that I'd change names and redact dates and adopt a pseudonym. She was skeptical, but she knew she couldn't stop me, so she agreed to help instead.

Daniel thought the whole thing was hilarious. Like a metanarrative! Oh my God that's priceless. Jamie wasn't impressed. Noah, as usual, was entertained by the prospect, and even said he'd help.

"Sort of like hiding in plain sight," he'd said when I'd told him my idea. "I like it."

"I'll need your help," I'd said. "There's a lot I don't remember."

"I'll fill it in for you."

"You have to tell the truth, though."

"When have you ever known me to lie?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question?"

"You're hurting my feelings. I've never been anything less than excruciatingly honest. Painfully reliable. Don't you trust me?"

"Yes," I'd said honestly. "I do."

Now I just have to write the thing. How hard could it be?

Noah winds a strand of my hair around his finger and tugs on it, just as I'm about to put one of my earbuds in.

"No one's going to believe it, you know."

I do know, but I don't care. If we had learned anything concrete by now, we had learned this: we weren't alone. There are others like us out there. People that think they're just strange or different or troubled or depressed or sick. They might just be. But they might also be something more. They could become one of us. And they should know it before it's too late.

"The truth should be told, even if no one believes it," I say. I tilt my head to look up at Noah. "The people who don't can love it or hate it or not care and forget they've ever read it. But maybe someone like us will read it and they'll know they're not alone. Or maybe someone not like us will read it but they'll believe and be warned about people who are."

Noah indulges me, as always. "So what kind of story will it be?"

A good question. It isn't horror, even though parts of it are horrifying. It isn't science fiction because the science and the story are real.

I look at Noah, grinning at me with my head in his lap, his hands in my hair, and I think about him and Jamie and my brothers and my parents. People who would do anything in their power to help me, even if they didn't always understand me. People I would do anything for, no matter who I had to hurt or what it would cost. I look back at the blank page, then, and know.

This is a love story. Twisted and messy. Flawed and screwed up. But it's ours. It's us. I don't know how our story will end, but I know how it will start. I pick up my pen and begin to write.